


Frost on the pane

by zetsubooty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Police Procedural, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, because that's what im here for, horny on main connor, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: He was built to come into situations, assist, and then leave.But everything's changed now, and Connor doesn't want to leave. And he's pretty sure Hank doesn't want him to, either.





	1. Individuation

**Author's Note:**

> shows up to this fandom fifteen minutes late with starbucks

Connor toys with the coin in his pocket, considering sending himself on another circuit around the block. He drags in air, sampling the suite of scents blowing through the narrow street in an attempt to calm the restlessness within him.

He’s quite certain if he saw anyone else behaving the way he was, they would immediately be tagged as suspicious. But he’s not technically doing anything wrong and not even the screaming of all his social integration protocols can drown out the prompt that’s been hanging, heavy and imperative, in his left field of view for days.

[See Hank.]

At first he'd thought it was some leftover code persisting, and when it wouldn't stay dismissed, some artifact of deviancy. Perhaps he’s not wrong on that count. It’s been less than a week since he last saw Hank, the city’s still poised in an uneasy truce as evacuees filter back in, and he should be busy with considering what on earth he’s going to do with the rest of his life. And not that he isn't, he’s just also finally crossing the street and putting his hand on the door to Jimmy’s Bar.

Connor stops in the doorway like he had a bare handful of days before, but not because he can’t find the shape that has been missing from his field of view for what feels like an eternity. He’d expected--hoped, perhaps--that some further prompt would appear once he got here, but nothing does. Just a vague [go to him] and a peculiar twinkle of plucked strings. It’s faintly unsettling.

But it feels good, it feels good when Hank glances over and his tired face lights up, feels even better when he effusively beckons Connor over. He can’t help replaying their earlier embrace in his mind, starts raising his arms for another, but something stops him, a certainty that the kind of embrace he wants would make Hank uncomfortable here in front of all these half-friends.

Hank slaps a heavy arm around his back, which is at least in the vicinity of what Connor wants, then tries to flag Jimmy down to order Connor a shot, which is not. He had a passing urge to take the shot glass still on the bar at Hank’s elbow and let him watch him sample the dregs still clinging to it and the faint signature of Hank’s spit that would remain on the rim.

But taking primacy over that is Jimmy’s blaring body language as he hovers pointedly.

[Take Hank home] slides out from behind him like an abashed child.

He smiles reassuringly, turning Hank’s sideways hug into maneuvering him off the barstool. “I’m calling the Lieutenant a cab. Does he have a tab to settle?”

”What the— I’m not goin’ home!”

Both of them completely ignore Hank. Jimmy’s eyebrows jump briefly before he moves away and goes back to slicing a lemon, palpable relief sagging his shoulders. “He can settle up next time.” For the first time, he flashes Connor a wan smile. “Get him home safe, yeah?”

“Of course,” Connor replies.

“Wish _I_ could call these guys cabs the same time I’m manhandling them…” Jimmy grumbles to himself, not appearing to want a response, so Connor offers none. Louder, he calls, “Don’t do anything I wouldn't do!” with a smirk in his voice, which Connor doesn't know how to respond to.

Despite his objections, Hank’s chatty on the cab home, sagging against Connor’s side every time he laughs, which is often. Each time, it makes Connor’s HUD spark from cool blue to a confused and urgent yellow-purple mess, fills his head with that same shiver of sound. But no suggestions for what to do about it arise, so he just relaxes his body, makes sure Hank doesn’t hurt himself as he flings himself around the seat.

Once they’re standing on the sidewalk, his mind finally offers useful suggestions, maneuvering them to the front stoop and wrestling the keys from Hank without dropping him.

Hank circles an arm around Connor’s neck and shoves his face against his ear, slurring out, “Yer a good guy, know that? A good…guy.” Connor nearly drops the keys. Hank pats Connor’s cheek in a dubiously pleasant fashion, seemingly oblivious to his agitation.

[Make Hank brush teeth before bed]

He gets the door open, finally, offering a largely scentless hand to a sleepily inquisitive Sumo. Connor ruffles his ears briefly as he steers Hank towards the bathroom. Running a quick preconstruction, he shifts his grip on Hank, kicks down the toilet lid, rotates him down to sit on it, and stops him from pitching forward with one knee while he loads up a toothbrush with paste and presses it into his hand.

“Whassis?”

“Where do you keep NSAIDs?” Connor rummages through the drawers of the vanity.

“Keep _what?_ ” Hank squints dubiously at the brush but finally sticks it in his mouth.

“Painkillers.” He ducks across the hall, finding a bottle of ibuprofen on its side amongst the detritus on the bedside table. He shakes out one pill.

[Raise dosage in accordance with mass]

He shakes out another, but narrows his eyes at them and slips one back.

Sliding across the hallway wall is [Blood-alcohol level 0.261]

[If he gets a hangover, he deserves it.]

He finds a glass by the sink and fills it. Hank’s still jabbing the toothbrush in his mouth meditatively; Connor crouches on one knee and takes it from him, replacing it with the pill and glass. Hank knocks both back with practiced ease and Connor spends only a split second blatantly staring at his briefly-exposed throat.

Connor tucks his own chin down, eyes flicking back and forth as he tries to make sense of the confused prompts popping up. “You should go to bed.”

“ _Make_ me, ya fuckin’ busybody.”

Connor jerks his head back, wrinkling his nose.

[That’s a new one.]

He meets Hank’s eyes. “You know I can. Make you.”

Hank’s eyebrow quirks up and a strange glint flashes in his eyes. He sways into Connor’s face, the minty signature of the toothpaste wafting over him with the smell of whiskey still a faint spicy undertone.

And there, projected on his parted lips like a tattoo that’s been there all along is [Kiss?]

[Kiss him?]

[Oh.]

[Oh, wow.]

Connor stares at Hank, dumbfounded, for what can’t be that long but feels like hours. The string refrain swallows him up, a burst dam that fills him with reward and lack in equal amounts, resonates in his fingertips and his head.

Hank reels back, waving his hand with an irritated, “Feh.” He sets the cup down on the edge of the tub and then grips it. “C’mon, then. Get the hell outta my way!”

Connor rises to his feet, moving to catch Hank’s wildly teetering form before he’s even started to fall.

[Kiss.] winds its way into Hank’s hair.

Hank grabs one of his arms just above the elbow, head bumping against Connor’s jaw. He straightens, the other hand papping at Connor’s face. “Yer so… _pointy_. Why the hell they make you so pointy?”

[Kiss!] slides along the inside of his wrist.

Connor’s LED swirls through yellow.

[Not when he’s like this.]

“I’m sorry my model does not conform to your aesthetic requirements, Lieutenant. Come on.” He shuffles them out of the bathroom, ignoring Hank’s searching look and almost throwing him across the hall to the bedroom. He hesitates in the doorway, though, watching Hank fight his way out of shoes and coat.

[Fetch the clothes]

It has absolutely nothing to do with the other imperative still stubbornly floating in his field of view, or the suggestions that if he lingers here, he might see Hank remove more than outerwear. He darts in, dipping down to scoop up shoes and coat, fully intending to leave immediately, or at least so says the prompt he’s left hanging in the air as if he just hasn’t noticed it yet.

Hank sags heavily onto the bed and kicks the rest of the way out of his jeans. Connor’s eyes widen, his lips parting slightly as he stares at Hank’s legs.

Words trail over Hank’s thighs, [Does Hank like to be touched here?]

[Do I?]

As if he could see the thought as plainly as Connor can, Hank’s knees twitch apart slightly. “Aesthetic requirements. Huh.” He scrubs a hand against his beard, eyes fixed on Connor.

[How do people know?]

He has a dozen ways to sense arousal, interest, but also knows that human attraction is more complicated than simple bloodflow. And now there’s the added problem that his clamouring desires are colouring all the information he takes in, he feels as though he’s both under- and overestimating Hank’s romantic interest.

[Just ask.]

He opens his mouth fully but as he does, Hank flops back on the bed, immediately groaning at the undoubtedly unpleasant sloshing of his world. Ungainly, he kicks and wriggles his way onto the bed.

Connor slowly rises to his feet, transferring the shoes and coat to one arm. Against every warning prompt and in agreement with every one urging him on, he steps closer.

Hank squints up at him in the dim light from the hall. “Wh…why’re…were you here, anyway? Jimmy call ya?”

“I came because--” Just like that, the babble inside goes silent, whispering away to the edges of his vision so he’s left just staring down at Hank where he lies with one arm resting across his stomach, the other knee bent slightly to show, below the hem of his boxers, the pale spread of his inner thigh. “I wanted…to tell you something.”

Hank waits attentively before rolling his hand in an encouraging gesture. “So? Wha’ wassit?”

Connor stares at him, trying hard not to focus on the part of his mind running a preconstruction of what would happen if he took that hand, if Hank yanked him down beside him on the bed, if he pulled Hank up to stand in his space.

“Nothing. I forget.” He turns swiftly to leave but Hank's hand shoots out to grab his wrist. Connor freezes.

Hank’s voice is oddly soft. “Hey. Sorry.”

[Sorry?]

[Sorry.]

[Has Hank done something wrong?]

[Hank thinks I’m angry at him?]

[Hank knows?]

[Hank knew before I did?]

[Hank knows and doesn't feel the same?]

Connor cuts off the quickly unravelling seam of thoughts. Too many possibilities and if he asks one simple question they will collapse into one single truth and he’s still reeling from the revelation that he harbours full-on romantic feelings towards Hank, he’s not ready for that tonight. Call it fear, call it sheer stubbornness, call it the name of some emotion he doesn't have words for yet, doesn’t matter because he asks nothing.

Only, “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, yanking his arm out of Hank’s grip and heading for the door.

“I got a _lot_ to be sorry for,” he hears Hank mutter as he closes the door behind him.

He hangs Hank’s coat and scruffs Sumo’s neck while he calls another cab.

[Why didn't I instruct the other one to stay?]

Sumo leans heavily against his thigh, looking for more petting, so he happily obliges.

[I _do_ like dogs.]

[I like _this_ dog.]

Connor cancels the cab. Not like he has a destination anyway, not until the libraries open. Instead, he walks.

* * *

There are already ads showing up for “android life coaches” and other similar services. Connor almost considers going to one. Then maybe he could ask them for some direction on how to tackle this. But he has a strange twinge of…shame? when he considers having to admit that he doesn’t know how to proceed.

Or more like, he doesn’t know how to proceed and get what he wants.

He has an advanced suite of social integration modules, but somehow, nowhere along the line did anyone think to write any guidance for this.

[This…crush?]

Then again, it’s his understanding that specific romantic attachments often run counter to overall group cohesion, at least in the short-term. Which is what he was intended for, to come into a situation, assist, and leave, just like he had in August.

Connor doesn’t want to leave.

He wanders past the DPD headquarters frequently on his walks (or, more often, runs), turning the problems over and over in his head and trying to ignore the directive still adamantly hovering over the doors like an impatient puppy of his own.

[See Hank]

And now…

[Kiss Hank]

[Touch Hank]

[Make Hank feel good the way I feel good when he touches me]

Perhaps there’s an easy way to combine both objectives.

Connor finally directs his steps into the building, feeling some slight relief from the incessant insistence of his UI.

Rather than the ST300 who had greeted him every other time, a somewhat disgruntled-looking Officer Wilson stands behind the reception desk. His soft face brightens when he sees Connor, though, and he waves him over.

“Hey, Connor!” Officer Wilson’s smile widens at Connor’s smile and greeting. “You looking for Lieutenant Anderson?”

“Not today, actually.” [But…] “Though, is he in?”

Officer Wilson’s mouth quirks in a way that conveys fond disapproval. The way most of the department seems to feel about Hank. “Haven’t seen him yet. …What’d you want again?”

“I was hoping to speak to Captain Fowler, if he has a minute, or set up an appointment.”

“Nah, he shouldn’t be too busy yet. I’ll check.” Officer Wilson taps into an intercom app on the tablet and speaks briefly, then smiles again. “You’re good to go.”

Connor smiles in answer and nods, turning to leave. Then stops himself. “You… I was busy last time we met; how have your injuries healed?” As if he can’t tell from subtle posture analysis and the faint scent of the opioids Wilson is sweating out.

“Doing great, thanks to you.” He grimaces, rubbing just above his elbow. “Still hurts like a bitch at night, and they’d only just cleared me for anything physical, so…” he gestures expansively at the desk with his left arm, “perfect fit.” He gives another more pained smile. “Kinda miss Samantha and Julie--they were our…you know. And not just because I’m tired of playing receptionist. They were sweet, ‘specially Julie.”

Connor does a quick scan of casualty lists. “As far as I’m aware, neither has been confirmed deactivated.” He’d intended that to come out a lot more comforting. By Officer Wilson’s expression, it wasn’t.

“We rounded up all of them at the station pretty quick. Hey,” he reaches out and grasps Connor’s upper arm lightly, “I’m…sorry. What we did--what we were doing…it was wrong. Unforgivably wrong.”

[Cold?]

[Reassuring?]

[Honest?]

Connor pats Officer Wilson’s elbow lightly in response. “Given the scope of human history, someone like you probably shouldn't be apologizing.” Census documents, birth, death, and marriage certificates flash behind his eyes. There are more than a few ugly gaping holes in Officer Wilson's family history.

“Right, yeah… Uh, well…have a good one?” Wilson shuffles some papers uncomfortably.

Connor turns to the gate again, mulling over the information gathered.

[When Officer Wilson touches me, it is not exciting] rests contemplatively on the wall.

[Somewhat uncomfortable, actually, though not terrible.]

[Is it truly person-dependent, or context-dependent?]

He nods perfunctorily to the officers he passes. Even though he knows he won’t see him, his gaze gravitates to Hank’s desk.

[Touch]

It’s out of his way and requires dodging around Officer Person, but he reroutes to pass Hank’s desk, letting two fingers graze over the surface, hitching on a sticky coffee stain. There is absolutely nothing interesting about the surface of the desk, certainly not that he hasn’t already taken in. It should not feel like a tiny shock, something he feels between his shoulder blades more than on his fingertips.

He’s still staring at his fingers (and rubbing at the residue) [wash hands before leaving] when he reaches Captain Fowler’s door. He hesitates before knocking.

[Clean fingers with mouth?]

With surreptitious speed, he brings his fingers to his mouth, samples. Sweet. Not Hank’s. Something he probably could have known without sticking it in his mouth. But he’d been, what, hopeful?

Shaking his head to himself, he knocks on Captain Fowler’s door.

He waves Connor in, not looking up from the tablet he’s skimming. Connor glances around the room, half-hoping a prompt will appear, but he’s on his own, beyond a distinctly unhelpful one hovering over Fowler.

Another thing CyberLife didn't prepare him for: asking for a job.

He takes a seat, folding his hands together neatly in his lap and watching Captain Fowler’s face. He seems to be in a relaxed mood as opposed to previous times he’s been here, and Connor can't help wondering if that has to do with Hank’s absence. Whatever the case, it raises the likelihood of a favourable outcome.

“Connor. Good to see you again.” Fowler’s expression and body language convey that it is absolutely neutral to see him again. “What can I do for you?”

“I would like to ask you for a job as a detective.”

A tiny blip of surprise in Fowler’s eyes, and then finally a slight smile. “I appreciate your directness. I don’t know if I can respond in kind, though. Your situation is…complicated.” He raises his hand before Connor can do more than open his mouth. “It’s not that I doubt your capabilities. But for one, there are certain…paths that are normally taken. Hell, I don’t even know how we hire someone without a social security number or a last name. Never mind,” his eyebrows flick in a frown, “the wastes-of-space in Washington still haven’t fully decided whether we should be prosecuting you all for your part in things.”

“I’m quite certain I did nothing illegal,” Connor says, quite certain of exactly the opposite.

“That may be, but…” Captain Fowler glances to the right. Connor runs some quick trigonometry to know what he could have guessed: he’s looking at Hank’s desk. Fowler sighs heavily. “The one thing I could do at this juncture is hire you on as a consultant. You’d still be a civilian, but I’m guessing that authority is not what you’re after here.”

“No, Captain. I just want-- _need_ something to do.”

Captain Fowler seems surprised, but responds before Connor can decide whether to explain further. “You would, of course, be preferentially working with Lieutenant Anderson, though I may ask you to assist other detectives as necessary.”

Connor drops his gaze, unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile, even as he feels a pang of…embarrassment? “I…that would be… I’d like that.”

“Thought you might.” Fowler leans back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ll talk to HR, see what we can make happen. In the meantime, do you have a…phone?”

“I can still be reached via the number that was provided by CyberLife.”

Captain Fowler had started to reach for his tablet, but stops. “I see. And an address…?”

“I don’t have need of a home as such, and presently have no income, so I hadn’t pursued that.”

“You should get on that,” Fowler replies, looking inordinately disconcerted. “Or maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t fucking know anymore. Goddamn, homeless robots…”

Feeling incredibly brazen, Connor catches his eye. “Perhaps, if I’m going to be working with him, and you have need of a physical location where I can be reached, you could use Lieutenant Anderson’s home address for now?”

“I…guess that works for the time being.” Captain Fowler laughs as if to himself, then leans his elbows on his desk again. “Okay, someone’ll be in contact with you. In the meantime, I’ve got shit to do, so…”

“I’ll see myself out,” he replies with a small smile, and leaves the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pardon my awkward white person fumbling i mean it fits with canon but


	2. Erosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistency in chapter size? i dont know her.

Driving with a hangover always makes him grumpy but Hank’s extra out of sorts when he reaches the station. Maybe it’s the extra vicious pounding of his head, maybe it’s the fact that he can’t entirely remember what he did the night before. What he said. To Connor.

And the unerring certainty that _Connor_ remembers every dumbass word of it.

“This is unfair,” he grumbles to the windshield. It doesn’t answer.

_That was not how I wanted our first interaction in weeks to go._

He slinks into the precinct, giving the desk officer--Wilson?--a quick nod. He’s got his head down, so the first thing he sees is the toes of a pair of charcoal-grey dress boots. Hank looks up quickly. As if anyone else would be there.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Connor’s tone is pleasant, so whatever he did last night, it can’t have been _that_ bad.

“Morning, Connor.” Connor seems to be paying extra attention to him, which is saying something. “Uh… Were you waiting to see me?”

“No, I came to see Captain Fowler.”

Some childish part of him that’d swollen with excitement at seeing Connor deflates with a speed that would be hilarious if it wasn’t him and if he wasn’t certain every ounce of it showed on his face. “Oh,” he says, intelligently. _I thought I decided I wasn’t gonna do that to myself._

Connor gives him one of those offensively earnest looks, tipping forward slightly so he’s looking up at him more noticeably. “This is not to say I’m not glad to see you. How are you feeling?”

He leans away, tilting his head back. “Like hot garbage. What’d you expect?”

Earnestness turns to a judgemental flattening of the lips. “You could easily avoid that if you stopped drinking. I’m finding it hard to be truly sympathetic.”

“Yeah, well, I could do a lot of things if I could be arsed, but that’s life. Why the hell'd you ask, if you were just gonna bust my balls about it?”

Connor looks…sad? Disapproving? Disappointed? Whatever the case, he takes a beat to respond, in which time Jeffrey’s door opens.

“Hank! Good. I wanna talk to you.”

“There in a sec,” he calls, before focusing back on Connor. “Look, uh…sorry if I was weird or anything last night. I was…too drunk. Which is saying something.”

Connor’s eyes flick down for a fraction of a second before returning to Hank’s face. “You did nothing wrong.”

He tilts his head, trying (unsuccessfully) to read Connor’s expression. “Then why does it seem like you’re upset?”

“I’m _not_ , I just have many things on my mind right now. Lieutenant, would you…would you indulge me in something?”

Thrown by the sudden tack, Hank crosses his arms. “…Sure?”

“Would you touch me? I need to check something.”

He almost laughs. “What kinda question is that? Here,” he knocks his knuckles against Connor’s forehead, then jams his hand back under his arm, “this do ya?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Connor scowls, almost a full-on pout. “It’s the least you could do, after last night.”

“Thought you weren’t mad. What do you want, a gentle caress? C’mon.” He’s feeling a little warm, despite how ridiculous it is to imagine Connor means anything romantic. And Hank _shouldn’t_ mean anything like that.

But here’s Connor, still staring at Hank expectantly (and sulkily). _(And handsomely.) (Fuck.)_

_I am not doing this to myself._

_Apparently, you are, you dumb bastard._

Hank sighs explosively, throwing up his arms in more of a show of exasperation than he feels. “Okay, okay…c’mere…” Feeling intensely aware of every other person in the room, he beckons Connor closer; he steps in without a moment’s hesitation. Hank claps his arms around him in a rough hug, slapping at his back a couple times as he inhales slowly, then releases. “There. What, your conversation with the Captain go that poorly?”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Anderson, you’ve given me lots to think about.” Without another word, Connor dodges around Hank and leaves.

“You’re…welcome??” Hank mutters, watching Connor’s retreating back. When he turns back, he catches Gavin smirking at him from the hall. Hank gives him a weary smile and heads for Jeffrey’s office.

“Hank,” Jeffrey says as he comes in, “you look like shit.”

“Yeah, and you’re a fuckin’ supermodel. What’s up?” As he sets himself down in one of the chairs, he wonders in passing whether Connor was sitting here just moments ago. He pulls a face at himself.

“Y’know, you could _try_ to be on time.”

He spreads his arms expansively. “And ruin my sterling reputation? Nah.”

Jeffrey touches the side of his hand to his forehead as if his skull is aching as bad as Hank’s, then lowers it in a frustrated wave. “Whatever. I was having a good day, I don’t feel up to hounding you. Now that we’re no longer in crisis mode, I wanted to talk to you about your assignments.”

“Okay…?” Hank sits up a little.

“I want you to stay on the android cases.”

He collapses back with a rough sigh. “Jeffrey…”

“Hank, after that scene you caused with Perkins, you should be kissing my ass! Begging for whatever scraps I give you! I should suspend--I should _fire_ you. God knows, I’ve got cause.” Jeffrey’s jaw clenches, his hands carefully relaxed where they rest on his desk. “But I’m not going to, because this shit is only gonna get more complicated from here out, and I know you can do the work. I need someone seasoned, someone with any hands-on experience looking at everything coming in in relation to these fuckers, someone who doesn’t have too much of an agenda. Someone I can depend on.” He fixes Hank with a baleful stare. “Can I depend on you, Hank?”

Hank scoffs indignantly, lifting his chin a little. “C’mon, Jeffrey, you know you can.”

“Do I?”

He holds Jeffrey’s eyes for as long as he can, searching for a response but finding nothing except more empty platitudes that crumble dusty on his tongue.

Jeffrey must see something that reassures him, because he sits back, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. “Plus, your partner apparently wants to keep working for us, and you two have built…a rapport.”

 _Goddamnit, Jeffrey, stop reading me like a fucking book._ _Or if you’re gonna, don’t throw gasoline on this dumpster fire._ “Yeah, I guess we have.” He shifts in the chair, lips quirking in a little smile. “Guess I won’t mind so much if it’s with Connor.”

Jeffrey relaxes palpably, even chuckling a little. “Jesus, if you could… I can’t believe a week and a half ago, you were ready to tear my face off over this same thing.”

Hank’s smile broadens, taking on a slight wistfulness. “What can I say, the freak grew on me.”

“It’s more than that.”

He feels a guilty start at the words. But Jeffrey’s still talking.

“You’ve been more…I dunno, engaged, these past couple weeks. It’s been good. Felt like I saw a bit of the old you.”

Hank wedges himself back in the chair. “The ‘old me’ is gone, Jeffrey. Anyway, what happened to not comin’ after me today?”

“So I lied, sue me. Also what the hell is this dramatic “the old me is gone” BS? You didn’t die, Hank.”

“No,” he replies, “I didn’t.”

Jeffrey slowly lowers his face into his hands, letting his eyes fall closed.

These are almost harder, these cushioned conversations. Easier when they both have an even bolster of anger on their side, when _everyone_ says things they regret, not just Hank.

Jeffrey sighs wearily. “Hank. I love you. I _believe_ in you. And I believe this kid…he could be good for you.”

Hank quirks another lopsided smile. “So, what, you’re hiring a babysitter for me, that it? Gonna have him--”

“Look, if that’s what it takes, then yes!” Jeffrey’s hands jerk away from his face. This is anger too, but not the blustering spiny explosive kind, no, this is a tiny pearl of anger, impossibly heavy, and Hank doesn’t want to touch it. “Maybe you’re right, maybe there’s no going back, not entirely. But I need something to change.” He meets Hank’s gaze with steely eyes. “I'm running out of second chances, here. I _need_ things to change.”

Hank stares back at him for a long moment, snarky comebacks pressing against his tongue. But nothing comes out, he just drops his eyes with a shallow nod and clenched jaw. “Okay.”

Jeffrey doesn’t speak for a long time, and if Hank had any balls, he’d look up at him, try and glean some insight into whatever bitter thoughts he’s mulling over. Finally, Jeffrey inhales slowly. “Good. Now get out of my office.”

When Hank sits at his desk, his eyes gravitate to the space across from him. Even though Connor had barely spent any time in the precinct itself, it still seems wrong that he’s not there, has felt wrong every day Hank’s been back at work since. But soon, that emptiness will fill in, soon, it’ll be alright.

His attention flickers to the room behind him, though he doesn’t turn.

_Does he think Connor’s some magic bullet, gonna fix me?_

_You wish._

Too many difficult thoughts lie in that direction, too many allocations of responsibility and blame, and the painkillers haven't kicked in yet. Hank gives himself a shake and wakes up the terminal.

There’s still the case files they’d been working on, as well as a few new ones that’ve filtered in, in the past weeks. And a glaring absence of anything to do with the revolution. Another place where blame is too hard to dole out.

_What am I even doing here?_

Maybe it’s time to look at this whole thing differently. Previously, deviance had been the “crime” they were chasing after, but…if he strikes that out, where does that leave them?

He has no fucking clue.

He keeps coming back to what Jeffrey’d said about him not having an agenda. Honestly, an agenda would make this easier.

If they take deviance out of the equation, what he’s left with are a familiar lineup of homicides, assaults, and missing persons. And…suicide?

Hank narrows his eyes, exhaling slowly as he tabs back through the files to one that had seemed out of place. He’d almost kicked it off the list outright because a surface scan didn’t show any android involvement. He reads through the file again: man found by firefighters behind his burned-out residence, death due to shotgun blast to chest, possibly self-inflicted. Further down, the only thing relevant seems to be a stolen CyberLife manufacturing and diagnostic tool.

Extremely suspicious, but unclear what it has to do with anything yet. Hank flags the file but moves on for now. A piece for a puzzle he hasn’t seen the full picture for yet.

Hank starts to push away from the desk, but then gets out his phone.

 **[11:48 am] ME:** Hey you still around

 **[11:48 am] Connor:** I’m still near the DPD, yes. Did you need something?

 **[11:49 am] ME:** Good meet me at my car I wanna go interview some people  
**[11:49 am]** Or maybe I should come find you  
**[11:49 am]** Captain told me youre gonna be working with me but this isnt exactly official yet  
**[11:49 am]** Still want you there

 **[11:49 am]** **Connor:** Sure!

 **[11:50 am] ME:** I mean because I dont wanna have to bring you up to speed later

 **[11:50 am] Connor:** Clearly.

 _What the hell does_ that _mean?_ _Better question, what the hell did_ you _mean, you dipshit?_

 **[11:50 am] Connor:** I assume you know where the Kawakaze restaurant is? I’ll be waiting on that corner.  
**[11:50 am]** Speaking of which, should I order something for you? You hadn’t eaten...

It's faintly unsettling that Connor can tell. It’s also weird how the texts come almost quicker than he can read them, the ‘typing’ icon not even having a chance to appear, as if they spring fully-formed from Connor’s mind. Then again, maybe that’s exactly what happens; he can’t remember ever seeing Connor with a phone.

 **[11:50 am] Connor:** Japanese foods are frequently low in saturated fats, excluding fried menu options; I think it would be good for you.  
**[11:50 am]** You’ll have to pay, though. I only have my remaining transportation stipend, and I’d prefer to save that for such purposes.

 **[11:52 am] ME:** Yknow if you ask someone out to lunch youre not supposed to turn around and make them pay

 **[11:52 am] Connor:** I was only suggesting a course of action.

 **[11:52 am] ME:** Youre kind of a shit date you dont even eat the food

_Why the hell did you have to phrase it like that?_

**[11:52 am] Connor:** I think I would like tasting something like that, actually, even if I don’t eat it per se. I understand raw fish is a unique sensory experience.

 **[11:53 am] ME:** How do you manage to make “I wanna try sushi” into the weirdest statement humanly possible

 **[11:53 am] Connor:** It’s a talent.

Hank feels himself smiling goofily and covers his mouth. Trying not to look like he’s hurrying, he heads for the elevator down to parking.

 **[11:53 am] Connor:** Also, I’m not.

 **[11:55 am] ME:** Eh?

 **[11:55 am] Connor:** Human.  
**[11:55 am]** You said “humanly possible.”

 **[11:57 am] ME:** Figure of speech  
**[11:57 am]** Make sure you get something with salmon

He parks around the corner and steps into the shoebox-sized restaurant. Connor’s near the back, and…animatedly talking with an elderly woman in Japanese.

 _I didn’t know he could… Guess I should’ve figured._ He squints a little, trying to listen in as he stares at the mole on the back of Connor’s neck, but though he can pick out the shape of words, he can’t connect them with meaning. _I wonder if he’d be willing to practice something like that with me_ …

He gives his head a quick shake; Connor’s not some domestic android for his convenience and entertainment, he’s a specialised tool that should be treated with respect. Hank wrinkles his nose. That’s not right, either. Honestly, he doesn’t know _what_ Connor is anymore, doesn’t think Connor knows either.

_At least I’m not the only one out to sea._

Connor finally turns, switching seamlessly back to English to call, “Hello, again!” and give him a silly little wave. Hank finds himself returning it as he steps towards the back of the restaurant.

He’d intended to hit up the first address on his list before eating, but his nausea vanishes with the first waft of warm rice and vinegar. Hank drives a little way until he can pull over on a sidestreet, then takes the paper takeout bag back from Connor’s lap to investigate its contents. An assortment of nigiri and a roll of something that involves...lettuce, as well as a salad. Undressed.

Hank looks up from the bag, giving Connor a dead-eyed look.

Connor regards him blandly. “You’re deficient in several essential vitamins and minerals. Probably due to the chronic alcoholism.”

“You ever heard of minding your own goddamn business?”

Connor continues, unfased, “You really ought to eat more, and better.”

“And _you_ can eat my entire ass.” Despite his grousing, he fishes a pair of chopsticks out of the bag, snaps them, and digs in.

It’s hard not to be conscious of Connor watching him, his cinnamon-brown eyes following Hank’s hand between the container and his mouth. After a moment, Hank sighs heavily. “You’re worse than Sumo. Here, try this.” He plucks a salmon egg from its shiny pile, holding it out.

He had expected Connor to offer his hand.

Not duck down while holding eye contact and take the egg from him with a quick swipe of his tongue.

His heart jumps in his chest, reverberating back through him. _What the actual fuck?_

Connor’s now blinking rapidly as he quite obviously swirls the ball around in his mouth. Hard not to think of the delicacy that that would take, the control.

Feeling suddenly breathless, Hank says, “Crush it.”

Connor’s eyes flick to him, wider than usual, then he bites down.

His expression is absolutely priceless. Hank snickers, swatting at Connor’s arm. “What d’you think?”

“I… That was…interesting?” Connor’s still working something around in his mouth, eyebrows twitching uncertainly. “It’s convenient that it’s largely liquid, much easier for me to dispose of.”

“Yuck.” Hank rummages in the bag, finding some napkins, and hands one to Connor. “I dunno if you need to spit it out, or…”

“I’m equipped to dispose of solid samples as well, don’t worry.”

“I’m…just not gonna ask.”

Ignoring him, Connor takes the napkin anyway, squinting at it briefly like a foreign object before dabbing at his mouth. “I’d like to try something else, if you don’t mind.”

A pinch of adrenaline before Hank’s dumbass pervert brain catches up that he means the other fish. “Sure, if you’re not gonna be weird about it.” He pokes at the salmon, but in a fit of selfishness, works off a small piece of tuna instead.

“Did I do something wrong?” Connor’s giving him another wide-eyed look, so innocent that it’s almost comical.

Hank opens his mouth, closes it, then finally says, “No.” Accepting his fate, he offers the tiny portion of fish to Connor’s mouth.

Again with the fucking eye contact, and Hank can’t look away, except to watch the soft movement of Connor’s lips and that goddamn tongue. His own mouth hangs open and he’s sure he looks like a drooling idiot but he can’t seem to move or do anything but watch Connor manipulate the “sample” in his mouth with that faraway look.

“I like this one, it has a broader profile of minerals.” He touches his hand to his lips briefly. “It’s…soft. I knew to expect it, but it’s still startling, the degree.” He focuses back on Hank, lips quirking almost imperceptibly. “I held a fish, once.”

“You are a fountain of surprises,” Hank deadpans.

Connor’s eyes slip to the side. “A Dwarf Gourami, male. I was trying not to hold it too tightly, to be fair, but I think it wasn’t as soft. It had fallen when its tank was damaged, and it was in distress, so its muscles were contracting violently, and that may have contributed. It was nice to see it relax as soon as it was back in its tank.” He gives Hank a sidelong look. “They’re anabantoid, meaning they have a limited capacity to breath air. Otherwise, I think it would have died by the time I arrived.”

“That concludes My Book Report On Fish-Holding.”

Connor looks at him sharply, lips quirking down sullenly. “I was only trying to make conversation. Sorry if it failed to meet your standards.”

Hank pauses longer than he should, warring with the urge to touch, reassure. He settles for elbowing Connor, which hits the perfect middle ground of being deeply unsatisfying yet still socially awkward. “Just because I poke fun at you, doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing you talk.”

Connor’s eyes narrow further as he turns to stare out the windshield. “My voice isn’t too goofy, then?”

“Your voice _is_ goofy. But maybe I like goofy.”

_Whoa, there._

He’s starting to feel warm, despite the chill creeping into the car. Still, it’s hard to feel too guilty, considering how pleased Connor looks now. He’s even slightly flushed himself, though whether that’s on purpose or not or what it really indicates, Hank couldn’t say. He can say, with absolute confidence, that it’s a good look on Connor, pink creeping down from his temple towards the two moles dotted on his cheekbone, warming the tip of his nose. Or maybe that’s just the cold. Probably the cold.

He forces himself to look out the window instead. _You are not. Allowed. To have a motherfucking crush on this man._ Machine _. Not allowed. You are a grown-ass adult. Keep it in your fucking pants._

Despite the reasoned pleading of his conscience, he pokes around the box again, picking up squid nigiri. “You should bite this. I won’t be able to break it up with chopsticks.”

Connor turns back to him, letting Hank appreciate the flush from a new angle, the way it echoes the colour of his expectantly parted lips and highlights the curved planes of his face.

He resists the urge to glance around furtively. _Jesus Christ, I hope no one can see this gong show._

Slowly, he inserts the end of the nigiri into Connor’s mouth, trying to pretend he’s not fixated on the slight widening of those lips, on the wetness he can see inside, the effect that white flash of teeth has on his insides. His own eyes droop closed, as if it were any defense, or perhaps more so he can preserve the image.

“I don’t like this one as much.”

Hank has to shake himself a little. He pops the rest of the nigiri into his mouth, only fully thinking about that after the fact. _Android cooties._ At least it saves him from having to answer Connor with anything other than eyebrows.

“My teeth are largely cosmetic, they’re not strictly speaking designed for chewing.” Connor reaches up to touch his jaw. “I think I prefer softer textures, or even something powdered or liquid? And I don’t find its chemical makeup as stimulating.”

“Well,” Hank swallows, “more for me.”

Connor smiles over at him. “Honestly, that makes me just as happy.”

_What?_

“What?”

For the first time, Connor looks…shy? He must be misreading it, the quick way he turns away and averts his eyes, the way he brushes his hand over his nose (red again? Still red?), shading his face. “I just…as I said previously, I would really appreciate it if you ate better.”

_You’re hallucinating. He probably just doesn't like explaining his nosy thought process._

He _had_ been considering obstinately refusing to eat the salad, but however obnoxiously pushy Connor might be, it’s hard not to want to please him. Hank picks up the small container, raising it as if in toast with an ironic smile that hopefully hides the genuine one, and digs in.

There’s a warmth in the car, something that comes not from either of them alone but builds in the air between them. As Hank eats, he has a pang of all-too-familiar guilt. _This_ is why. This is why he can’t allow himself any stupid attraction. This is more valuable, more tangible, more useful to _both_ of them, not just his horny ass. Connor doesn’t need a gross old man slobbering over him, he just needs a friend. If he needs anything at all.

_Those are some real pretty words, Hank Anderson. Keep telling yourself that, you might just convince someone._

Eventually, he catches himself ineffectually chasing a morsel of rice around the box and makes himself bundle the bag up to chuck in the backseat.

“Well.” Reluctantly, he starts the car, feeling it purr to life under them. “Guess we oughta do what I came out here for. Interview time.” Before he pulls into traffic, he glances over at Connor for a split second. “Hey…thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He can hear the smile in Connor’s words. “We should do it again.”

 _I think I might actually die._ “Yeah.”

* * *

When they get back in the car after the first stop, Connor spaces out. Hank might’ve missed it if he didn’t catch the reflection of yellow in the window. He asks, “What’s up?” at the same moment blue chases the yellow out and Connor turns to him.

“I was about to backup with CyberLife, but that’s no longer appropriate. We should connect me to your databasing systems directly, once Captain Fowler has issued appropriate clearances, so you can access my audiovisual logs as well.”

“You like, recording all that?”

“Mm-hm.” Connor gives him a small proud smile. “That should have been in the briefing document about me.”

“I…didn’t read that.”

“That’s alright. I think I’d rather you keep getting to know me like this, anyway.”

He gets the car going so he’s not tempted to look at him again and the weird charming dimply smile Connor’s undoubtedly still flashing. “Me too.” _At least he didn’t wink at me this time. Yet._ “You can’t do that kind of thing without telling people, though. ...Hey, wait, you recording _me?_ ”

“Yes.”

Hank flips him off. “Knock it off!”

Unsurprisingly, Connor is completely unbothered. “It’s not an intentional act, it’s just an artifact of how my audiovisual input is stored. Aren’t you recording this interaction as well, in your own way?”

Hank opens his mouth, then closes it for a moment, pursing his lips a little. “Got me there, I guess. What I said ‘bout telling people still stands, though. We should prolly make you up a form, or some shit…”

“That’s probably wise.” Connor takes out his coin, doing something that makes it glint annoyingly in Hank’s peripheral vision. Or more like, he _wishes_ it were annoying still and not just endearing. “I suppose I could purge my memory more thoroughly, if it would make you comfortable. But I’d much prefer not to do that for my interactions with you.”

 _He doesn’t mean anything by it, he doesn’t mean anything, he doesn’t mean anything…_ “Fill your fuckin’ boots.”

Connor falls silent for a long while, but Hank has a feeling he’s still chewing something over. At a stoplight, when Hank does finally spare him another glance, he’s spinning his coin on a fingertip and looks deep in thought. Instantly, though, Connor catches his coin in his palm and catches Hank’s eyes.

“Do you… Is it normal to miss someone, even if there are negative emotions and experiences associated with them?”

 _God, I hadn’t missed these existential questions._ “Uh…yeah?” Faces rise in his mind’s eye, Cole, his ex, old friends, even his own parents and grandparents. Too many, too sore, too frequently his fault, too much to deal with right now; he pushes them away. “Welcome to feelings. They don’t always make sense.” The light turns green; he lets silence drag between them for a while longer before he finally prompts, “You wanna talk about it?”

“Would that be helpful?”

“I’ve heard something like that, yeah. Never really found it helped, myself.”

“Did you actually try?”

 _Called the fuck out._ “Look, thought this was about _you_ , and whatever shit you got going on in that supercomputer brain of yours.”

Connor examines his coin, turning it over in his hands. He opens his mouth on an inhale, but pauses for a while longer before finally replying, “We’ll arrive at our destination too soon for me to explain fully, I think.”

“Cool,” Hank grunts, rolling his eyes.

They don’t glean much of use in the living rooms and offices they visit. But at the same time, there’s something relaxing about doing plain old boring police work, after these past few weeks. Even if they’re still technically on the same messy case, even if the overall situation has only gotten more complicated. But that’s a problem for politicians and people like Jeffrey or the resistance androids whose faces have been plastered over every screen for weeks.

“Hey,” he asks as they wait in a softly minimalist suburban living room near the end of the day, “why aren’t you with those other guys? Markus and North, or whatever…”

This time, Connor absolutely blushes, though it’s not a happy thing judging by the thin line of his mouth as red creeps up from his jaw. “I thought I would be going with them too. I did, for a few days. But there was…concern, from some of the Jericho people, over the optics.” He examines his hands, folded in his lap. “They thought it might not instill confidence in our people, seeing the “deviant hunter” at the table. News spreads fast amongst our kind, especially after I let that WB200 escape.”

Hank scours his mind for exactly which flubbed mission Connor could be referring to, then grimaces. “Yeah, uh, sorry ‘bout that…”

“Oh, I have no regrets.” Eyebrows raised, Connor fixes him with those warm brown eyes, marred only by a lingering unhappiness. “You would most likely have climbed up on your own, but I wanted to be sure you were safe. Besides, it would probably have been an issue regardless. It’s not like CyberLife were secretive about my deployment or my purpose, given how bad deviance looked for them.”

“The optics again, huh,” he asks, trying to play it cool like his heart hadn’t flipped at Connor’s admission he’d pulled him up just because he was scared for him. Or maybe he’s just reading too much into it.

Connor nods solemnly. “There’s also…” Hank catches Connor’s near hand twitching, leaving the other behind to lift fractionally before curling into a fist and dropping to his thigh. “I…”

Staring at Connor’s hands, Hank asks, “Did you _want_ to go with them?” Maybe Connor forgot his coin in the car.

“I don’t think so? I don’t really know.” Despite the uncertain tone still lingering in his voice, Connor seems almost relieved by the question. “It would certainly have been interesting, and I think they would have benefitted from my skill-set and knowledge base. And Markus seemed very welcoming.” His brows twitch in slightly. “I think it would have been nice, to spend more time with him. The others too. I’ve maintained contact with them, and I help where I can, and I hope that contact will continue even after the talks are over...” Peripherally, Hank can see Connor turn, head tilted, a tiny smile curving his lips. “But I think, in the end, I’d much rather be here, doing this. With you.”

Despite every brain cell screaming at him not to do this to himself, he turns fully and looks.

“Sorry to keep you folks waiting!” Across from them, a pocket door rattles open, followed shortly by a round woman carrying a tray with a steaming French press and some cookies on it.

Hank doesn’t know whether he wants to thank the woman or kill her. Regardless, he still has to do his job. “This is really unnecessary, Mrs. Feldman…very much appreciated, though…”

Angela Feldman puts down the tray on the square coffee table before settling into an armchair across from them. “No worries, I could use a cup myself.” She pushes down the plunger, smiling pleasantly enough, but now that he’s got a second to look at her, Hank can see her previously immaculate makeup is smudged around the eyes. If that’s the reason she needed a moment, he’ll gladly accept the coffee she hands to him.

“None for me, thank you.” Connor waves his hands in polite refusal as she slides a cup towards him.

“Oh! I— That’s right.” Her smile turns sorrowful in a way Hank wishes he didn’t recognise. “Tempest, she… Her model was designed to simulate eating…Bonnie always made fun of me, feeding my “drink-and-wet-dolly.” But she loved being with us at mealtimes, you know?” Her eyes flick up to them, then back down again. “So I forget…that not all of you…”

“I do enjoy sampling things,” Connor volunteers, and Hank takes a long sip of coffee and tries very hard not to think about earlier in the car. “It’s not eating, exactly, but my mouth is equipped to analyze chemical compounds, and I find it quite pleasant. Mostly.”

Angela smiles a little more genuinely. “Well, if you wanna sample any of these cookies, go right ahead! I won’t tell your mom if you don’t finish,” she says with a wink.

Looking disproportionately pleased, Connor takes one of the shortbread cookies. “I don’t ha—“

Hank very subtly kicks Connor’s ankle before he can say whatever depressingly honest thing he was about to say. “I hate to cut the chit-chat short, but I was hoping you could tell us about Tempest and, uh, her disappearance. We shouldn’t take up too much of your evening.”

“Oh! Oh yes…”

“Also, I should let you know, Connor’s recording this conversation, if that’s alright with you.”

“Hmm? Yes, that’s fine.” She takes her cream-laden coffee to hold in her lap, staring down at it as she very obviously composes herself. “Tempest was our little— We, you know, it turned out we couldn’t conceive, so we went the donor route, but that— They caught the ectopic pregnancy early, so Bon was alright, but…I couldn’t put us through that again. So Bonnie suggested we adopt one of the…the little ones they have, and I said yes.”

She glances up at the mantlepiece, where a stereotypical school portrait-style photo of a young girl rests. She shares Angela’s black hair and approximate skin tone, though her eyes are a deep brown to Angela’s charcoal grey.

“She was an angel.” A single tear climbs down Angela’s cheek, glinting when she looks up at him with a sad smile. “We called her “Tempest” because she was like this little whirlwind that came into our lives… Maybe it wasn’t the same as having a human child, but…we still loved her just as much.”

 _Well-off enough to talk about fertility treatments and androids like they’re no big deal, but this furniture’s Ikea. Benefits? Just thrifty?_ _We should look at their finances, just in case._

“What happened on the evening of June fourteenth?” Connor prompts, leaning towards her.

Angela inhales sharply, then curls a fist in front of her mouth. “I’m sorry…”

Hank waves a reassuring hand. “No, no. We know this is hard. Take your time.” _She’s a bit theatrical, but it feels genuine to me. I’ll see what Connor thinks later._

She seems to collect herself, taking a sip of coffee, then starts again, “The kids around the block loved her. She knows all the best games and she’s always ready to play, y’know? Never gets tired, never minds being “it” twenty times in a row. And we… When we’d talked about raising kids previously, independence was really important to us. That’s part of why we moved out here, even though Bonnie works downtown. And that…the independence thing didn’t change just because of what Tempest was. We’d let her go for playdates and go with the kids to the park all the time; we could always message her if we were worried.” She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a sip of coffee. “That day… It was a Sunday. Leon’s family just got a new puppy, and he wanted to show off, so a bunch of them headed to the park to throw a ball for her. And—” She takes a careful, shaky breath. “We waited for a while before we checked in, but she didn’t answer, which she _never_ does. Bonnie went to the park, circled the block a few times, checked the places she likes to go, but she couldn’t see her or the other kids anywhere. I called Leon’s mum, and she said he’d been home for hours by then.” She looks up at Hank with lost eyes. "I was so scared! And I...and I..."

There’s a rattle at a side door, then it swings in. “Hey babe, ‘m hom— Who’s this?” Bonnie, presumably, kicks off her boots near the door and comes over to survey them, leaning one hand on the back of Angela’s chair. She has the same russet-brown eyes Hank saw in the photo.

“These two are police offi— Detectives, sorry.”

Hank waves his hand. “Don’t worry—”

“You come about the cats?”

Connor sits to attention comically.

“Cats?” Hank asks, looking between the two women with a slight crease of his brows.

“Yeah. Neighbourhood ones keep turning up dead.” She leans down to snag a cookie. “Keshawn said he’s seen baby bunnies too that didn’t look like an animal or car got them. Kinda fucked up. He call you?” She looks at them fully, eyebrows quirking in a frown at their head shakes. “You’re here about Tempest, then?”

They both nod. Bonnie shifts her grip to Angela’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Out of the corner of his eye, Hank can see Connor watching, strangely rapt.

_She’s not as invested in the kid, but she’s invested in her partner. Maybe it's just been long enough that they've got their act down, but I don’t think either of them’s responsible._

Bonnie chews on a mouthful of cookie, then swallows heavily. “They said they couldn’t find any evidence at the park. Like she just—shoop—like aliens took her or something. They said they thought maybe she ran off? Maybe because of, like, that deviance stuff? But our baby…she wouldn’t do that.” She sinks down on the arm of Angela’s chair, leaning against her.

“Deviance hits out of the blue, from what we know. She may even just have come into contact with a deviant android.” Hank pushes confidence he doesn’t fully feel into his voice; he might still be an idiot about this stuff, but they don’t need to know that.

“Are you…are you going to look for her? They said they’d flag her model type and serial number, in case she showed up somewhere, but we never heard anything…” Angela looks between them, naked pleading in her eyes.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up.” He’s not used to dealing with cold cases, he’s not used to these conversations and the utter defeat seeping back down both the women’s faces. Or the resentment he feels that they have any hope at all. “We’re…they’re…”

Connor picks up when he falters. “This is a complicated interim time. You’re most likely aware, but talks are still being held to amend the American Androids Act and determine the legal standing of androids, and that will likely alter how a case like this is pursued both now and in future. Right now, Lieutenant Anderson and I are mainly gathering information and reexamining some of these cases to start compiling a more comprehensive dataset and some procedural guidelines.”

 _Is_ that _what the fuck we’re doing?_ He tears his eyes away from Connor’s disarming expression, focusing back on the couple. “If we’re able to help you find your little one too, that’d be a big plus.”

Angela gives them a tremulous smile, resting her head against Bonnie’s side. Bonnie curls a hand around the back of her head, looking down at her wife but saying to them, “Please.”

“Well. We, uh, we shouldn’t take up more of your time.” He gets to his feet, fishing a business card out of his inner coat pocket. “Here’s my contact info, if you think of anything more…” _Maybe I can get Connor to deal with calls from now on…_

“Thank you.” Bonnie takes it from him, everyone standing and the group making their way to the door.

As they walk to the car, Connor’s examining his nibbled-at cookie with a peculiar expression. Hank has a passing temptation to steal it from him and eat it, but Connor looks so oddly pleased by it, he can’t quite bring himself to.

“What are you doing here, Noah?”

No matter how burnt out and miserable he gets, he never loses that spark of intuition. Hank noisily drops his keys. “Ah, shit.”

“I wanna know about those guys,” pipes up a voice a few years shy of cracking.

“Watch them.” Hank pitches his voice low, not looking up at Connor as he mimes casting about in the slush.

Hank watches peripherally as well as Angela comes out onto the shovelled walk, mincing on bare feet. “These are some nice police officers who wanted to ask some questions about Tempest, honey, nothing to worry about.” She seems to consider for a second, then adds, “You know, if you think of something you could tell them about that day, I’m sure they’d like that.”

Hank can feel “Noah” staring at them as he says, “That guy’s a android.”

“Yeah, he is. You know all about police androids, Noah baby.” Angela takes the kid by the shoulders, gently steering him around. “It’s probably supper time, sweets, you should run along home…”

Hank recovers his keys, finally letting himself take a proper look at the kid as he runs past down the drive flashing a grin that Hank returns. White skin, brown hair, light eyes that could be grey or blue. All-around generic all-American kid. No reason and every reason he should be pinging Hank’s suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank "my dogs name is sumo" "sad japanese maple on his desk" Anderson is closet anime trash and u cant change my mind. bitch got in flame wars over narusasu in his teens. Someday Connor’s gonna open a cupboard door and a bunch of horny anime babe figures are gonna fall on him.


	3. Surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up this chapter is kind of gross!! like animal body parts kinda gross!!!

Androids don’t dream.

Or more like, they never stop, if one subscribes to the idea that dreaming is simply background process given narrative flow by a consciousness at rest.

Connor sits at the end of a rank of carrols, to all appearances focused on the scrap paper he’s filling with frustratingly even lines of text. Internally, his mind wanders. Simple exercises, like reconstructing the movements of yesterday’s patrons from scuffs on the linoleum and a discarded pen. Like sampling his borrowed pencil, the complex tambura drone of recycled wood products and the steady viola notes of the graphite filling his UI with gentle blue lists of compounds.

It’s the abstractions that can get difficult.

He hasn’t connected to CyberLife’s servers since the revolution; even yesterday, what stopped him was unease long before the comfortably logical thought offered itself that he should be backing up with the DPD and not CyberLife. And yet he finds himself awakening in the frigid garden often, comes to deep inside himself half-buried in snow and shaking to his core.

Sometimes, when he awakens in some miserable corner of that barren wasteland, sometimes he can shift it. Force the temperature to rise and the richer colours to seep back over the landscape. Melt the snow into cool rain or a midsummer haze, coax flowers out of hiding, crack the thick ice to reveal the warm blue underneath.

The same blue as Hank’s eyes.

If he keeps pushing, he can alter it further, turning the foliage improbable shades of cotton candy pink and fluorescent charcoal and colours that don’t yet have names. He can grow the crystalline structures of the bridges and pillars into immense non-euclidean jungles and inconstant melting cathedrals to rival the Sagrada Familia, or recurve them in fractal folds, an infinitesimal dollhouse for him to play with. These moments, he likes, pushing his constructive powers beyond what they were originally intended for, finding new applications his creators had never dreamed of. All for himself.

Habitually, he places Hank in that internal world, lets him walk the tidily-spaced paths or climb the backs of knotted staircases into a spiny lavender sky. Sometimes, this Hank is simply a silent figure moving through. Other times, Connor animates him with a host of behavioural tics and flourishes, makes him come as alive as a doll made by a doll can be.

But it only gives him a whisper of the notes that resonate brightly in his head every time Hank looks his way.

Sometimes it makes him feel worse, especially on days like today when his every nerve buzzes with anticipation, with the infinity of milliseconds separating him from really seeing Hank. But he still keeps doing it.

Today, Hank lounges in the boat, summer sunlight tangling with his beard and hair and turning them a shade closer to what they once were. It’s interesting, but Connor slaps the sunbeams aside, lets them play instead with the colour of Hank’s shirt. A shade of a shade is not what he craves.

He slowly descends the steps, watching the boat drift closer on a sourceless current.

“Now, this is different.”

Connor turns, banishing Hank’s spectre in an instant. Markus crosses a bridge to meet him, looking around with a relaxed smile, seemingly oblivious to any other occupants.

Connor beams at him, hoping to cover his embarrassment. “Good morning.” At least there’s more privacy without physical contact; Markus may have visual access to his world but no emotional link.

Markus reaches the central island and turns, admiring. It wouldn’t have occurred to Connor to feel proud of his creation, but it’s hard not to feel rewarded by Markus’s low whistle. “I never suspected you had such a whimsical side, Connor. You still have a lot of secrets, huh?”

“It’s not a secret!”

Markus laughs at his denial. “Didn’t mean anything by that.” He brushes his thumb against his lower lip. “You mind if I paint this place sometime? It’s really beautiful. I’ve been thinking of practicing emotionally expressive landscapes…”

Connor smiles, though his brows twitch together. “I…don’t think I’d like that. This place is personal.”

[What emotions do you see here?]

Markus’s eyebrows jump but his easy smile remains as he settles on a bench. It bounces and sways like a gelatinous hammock, then settles into a hyperbolic curve off into the distance. “That’s alright. I think I understand.” He examines the bench for a moment, reaching out to touch the protrusion; it scatters like light.

[Good, because I don’t,] he wants to say, or perhaps [This place is private and I didn’t want you here,] [I don’t even understand how you got in here,] or maybe even [I’m happy to see you anyway.] Connor pushes himself to keep smiling; it used to be easier before he wanted to feel it first. “I didn’t expect you to check in today, but it’s nice to see you. Are things going well, still?”

Markus chuckles. “Debatably. We’re still working on a formal description of android for the new inclusive definition of personhood. Josh is absolutely living, but the rest of us are real ready to move on. But…that wasn’t why I came.” The gentle light beams spring off Markus’s fingers and make infinite dual-coloured prisms of his eyes when he looks up at Connor. “I feel like I always come to you with my problems, and haven’t asked you about how you’re doing in a while. How are you, Connor?”

Abruptly, the trellis rose rattles ominously, bowing out and through him in an irregular sphere. Connor takes a half-step back, raising a hand to bat it away; it shatters with a low rumble and vanishes. “I’m good.”

Markus keeps watching him, his mouth slowly twisting in an amused smile. “You could elaborate a _little_ more than that, I’d let you.”

Connor brushes his hand down the central pillar, its texture is that of fine sand and it holds the tracks of his fingers. “I asked Captain Fowler for a job?” He’s programmed to engage in small talk, but he has the sense that that’s not what Markus is after. Perhaps he can be contented with it.

Markus half-stands, anger working over his face. He shakes his head in quick rejection.. “I don’t understand. Why… They were part of hunting our people! I thought… Why would you choose to go back to them?”

[Wrong choice.]

The pillar hardens, cracks, pinching his skin for a second before he snatches his hand back. “I…”

[Honest?]

[Deflect?]

[Anger?]

“I guess…I didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”

Markus stands, pacing back and forth a few times. “It’s not about my feelings. We’re not just _us_ , anymore. We have to be conscious of the messages we’re sending!” He stops, fixing Connor with his gaze. “How it looks when we unquestioningly go back to being a tool.”

Connor narrows his eyes. “Maybe I don’t _want_ to think about it.”

He’d expected hostility, but instead, Markus stares at him a beat longer, then breathes out a laugh. It forms a lazy spiral in the air, drifting off into the sky. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have some selfish motivation.”

[Tell him?]

The prompt hovers over Markus’s left shoulder like a pet bird and Connor wishes fervently that he knew whether Markus could see it.

Markus’s face loses saturation and goes fuzzy for a split second. “Shoot, sorry… They’re gonna start up in a minute, I should have a quick chat with the others,” Markus says, though he makes no motion to leave, instead staring Connor down levelly. “I’m not here to tell you what to do with yourself, but I want you to think about what you’re doing. Think about where _your_ morals actually lie. I know you have them.”

Before he can respond, Markus is gone.

Connor banishes the internal world. There’s an incoming phone call, anyway. He taps the pencil against his lips thoughtfully as he answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Fiona Castle from the DPD HR department. Captain Fowler said you’d be expecting our call?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’d like you to come down to the office, ‘kay? I’ve got some stuff for you to sign.”

Connor scraps his paper, calling a cab.

* * *

Once he’s done with the administrative staff, Connor’s directed back to the homicide department to wait for Hank. Again.

It bustles with quiet activity, though several officers look up from their work long enough to give him a smile or a greeting. He settles at the desk opposite Hank’s, folding his hands in his lap.

[AM 10:34:57] RK800-313248317: Good morning, Lieutenant. Are you planning to arrive at the office soon? I’m here right now, but would like to go speak to the family of the child we encountered at the Feldman residence last night. I have a feeling he’s involved somehow. I have identified him and his address, and can direct us there.

Connor glances around the desk, thinking about the mess on the other side.

[Hank’s desk shows his personality.]

[Other officers’ desks do as well.]

He frowns to himself, scooching the chair in a little.

[That requires possessions, aesthetic preferences.]

[Interests.]

[What are my interests?]

[Hank?]

He surveys the other desks he can see. Family, sports, pets, work achievements… That last, maybe he has, though from the perspective of the police department, he’s not sure the things he’s done count as achievements. Maybe he could put a picture of Sumo somewhere where they could both enjoy it…

[AM 10:45:03] Lt. Hank Anderson: You are such a keener nerd

[AM 10:45:02] RK800-313248317: I don’t follow…?

[AM 10:45:28] Lt. Hank Anderson: Anyway yeah me too he might justve been nosy but my gut says he knows something  
[AM 10:46:44] Lt. Hank Anderson: Just teasing you again dw about it  
[AM 10:47:02] Lt. Hank Anderson: Im on my way in should I pick you up

[AM 10:47:03] RK800-313248317: Yes. I’ll meet you outside.

[AM 10:50:38] Lt. Hank Anderson: Youll be pleased to know I ate breakfast today

[Change display names in texts?]

[AM 10:50:39] Connor: I feel like you’re making fun of me again but that does make me happy.

[AM 10:51:26] Hank: Good :)

[Too familiar?]

“Hey, tin can, what’re you smiling about?”

Connor shifts his focus outward to find Detective Reed standing over him with his arms crossed. “I was talking to someone else,” he says, tone pleasantly even.

Reed snorts, implying either he got Connor’s meaning or missed it completely. “Weird, seeing you without the old drunk. Didn’t know you were allowed off-leash.”

“I am fully in charge of myself, now, thank you.”

Another amused huff from Reed, his mouth twisting on a contemptuous smile. “You are, are ya? Seems like you’re pretty happy being Hank’s lil’ bitch, letting him feel you up yesterday…”

His HUD sparks yellow.

[Defend Hank]

“That’s not what Lieutenant Anderson did.” Reed laughs again, starting to turn away. “I was the one who initiated the contact.”

Reed’s attention snaps back on him in an instant, like a cat watching a limping bird. “…You sneaky little perv! You’re _crushing_ on that sad sack of shit?”

Connor has never been gladder that his emotional displays are largely under his control, that he can shut down the blush function before it even starts. “That’s not what I said.” He doesn’t manage to stop himself adjusting the front of his jacket in an obviously discomfited display.

Reed raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. “Uh-huh. Yeah. God, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you things?” Shaking his head, Reed takes a step back towards his desk, then turns back. “Little advice? Better get up on that quick. There’s, uh, there’s _definitely_ hoards of babes beating down _that_ door.” Another sneering smile. “Or more like, his liver’s gonna implode…”

Connor stares back at him stonily. Reed rolls his eyes and finally removes himself, leaving Connor staring down at his hands and feeling as though he’s failed at something.

[Wait for Hank outside]

Connor steps up to the curb, slipping his coin out of his pocket. Then squints up at the sky, wrinkling his nose. It’s starting to rain, the kind of slushy drops that promise snow without delivering. Used to be, that sort of thing didn’t bother him, would barely register except for a reminder to compensate for slippery conditions. Now, Connor retreats back under an overhang, rubbing his upper arms briskly.

The ghost of another touch chases his palms, the recent data of Hank’s arms encircling his back, of their thighs touching when they sat next to each other on various couches, playing under his skin like watery sunlight. He slips his hand into his other pocket for the cookie he’d saved that shouldn’t have anything to do with Hank but _does_ because they were there together, because he’d caught Hank’s indulgent smile as they left the house, because of earlier in the car with the sushi and the fleeting and confused desire for Hank to slip this in his mouth, too.

The cookie’s broken, his pocket full of crumbs.

Connor scowls at his dusty fingers, rubbing his thumb over them in a futile attempt to brush them clean. Giving up, he sticks them in his mouth; at least he can enjoy the round marimba taste of the butter and flour.

A familiar car pulls up in front of him, Hank leaning over the seat to pop open the door. Connor gratefully hurries across the sidewalk and slips into the embrace of the seat and blasting music.

The whole ride over, he can’t stop looking at Hank. It’s riveting, tripping off a kick of happiness each time he shifts his attention from the drab suburban streets to Hank’s profile, intriguing to watch it build higher and higher as his eyes linger until his HUD buzzes with multicoloured sparkles. Alongside the reward is a feeling of [not quite] or [not enough] that says there are things that would feel so much better, would satisfy in new and exciting ways.

[What sort of things?]

If he had breath, he’d hold it as he reaches out and brushes his fingers through Hank’s hair.

“What the fuck?” Hank shrugs his shoulder, batting Connor’s hand away.

“Sorry.” He’s not, not even remotely. His fingertips sing with reward, that churango refrain rising high in his heart.

Hank runs his hand through his hair, tucking some strands behind his ear. “What, I got something stuck in there?”

[Truth?]

[Lie?]

[Lie, but make it obvious?]

“I…yeah, there was some fluff…” Hank’s ear is deeply fascinating, the edge pink, and Connor can’t remember seeing it before to know whether that’s normal or a result of his touch. Either way, his HUD sparkles interested around that half moon curve, leaving Connor with a small giddy smile as he looks back at his hands.

“You’re such a fuckin’ weirdo,” Hank grouches, but when Connor gives him a sidelong glance, he looks like he’s trying not to smile.

[Touching is good.]

[Touching is so, so good.]

On a Saturday morning, there are kids playing in their slushy yards, irregularly-knitted caps and mittens holding on precariously in an idyllic picture of suburban happiness. Connor connects each face to school IDs and registries, finding nothing of note beyond the normal array of fractures and scholastic ups and downs. He doesn’t spy Noah McCullough amongst them.

He likes that Hank doesn’t tell him to wait in the car anymore, that he looks over at him as they shut the doors with synchronised clanks. Likes waiting at the start of the walk until Hank comes level with him, then heading for the door in step.

[Holding hands would be good here.]

He consoles himself with the preconstruction of it, imagines tugging Hank’s hand out of his pocket to interlace with his own, or maybe Hank tucking their hands into the spacious pockets of his coat, more than big enough for a little tangle of warmth against the lingering chill.

All too soon, they’re standing at the door, Hank giving him a perplexed sidelong look as he rings the bell. Connor meets his eyes, more words crowding his tongue, [I was thinking about holding your hand], [actually I was thinking about kissing you too.]

[Are these things you think about?]

[Because I think you do.]

The door swings open. Connor’s facial recognition scatters across the woman’s face, identifying her unsurprisingly as Leslie McCullough.

“G’morning, ma’am,” Hank flashes his badge, “We’re from the DPD, just asking some routine follow-up questions on a disappearance from last year.”

“Why are you _here?_ ”

Hank blinks. “We’re just canvassing everyone. Anyway, my partner here’s recording--”

“You came straight to my house.”

“Gotta start somewhere, ma’am.” Connor can feel Hank bristling suspiciously the more this woman objects.

[2:03:64 before she admits us to the house]

[Explore?]

[Wait with Hank?]

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, Mrs. McCullough.” He steps off the front stoop, heading for the side yard.

“Where’s it going?”

“Er, just… We’re looking for anywhere outside Tempest mighta holed up, too. You know kids, they get into the weirdest spots…”

“I think we’d’ve noticed one of those things skulking around.”

Connor mostly tunes out of the conversation; Hank can fend for himself. Beyond a gate, the fence here is lined with shallow raised beds, the rotted remains of summer vegetables drooping from stakes or poking through the few remnants of snow as if in a last bid for freedom. Connor follows the overgrown pavers, sheltered from the last of the drizzle, past what distinctly smells like a compost bin and towards the back yard.

It’s neither particularly big nor small, confined on all sides by a wooden fence installed sometime in the past decade. There’s a dilapidated shed towards the back right corner, overshadowed by the twisting arms of a mature beech tree with a rope swing hanging from one of its limbs. Forgotten toys hump out of the snow like decaying gravestones, two decrepit snowmen lean drunkenly towards each other, and in the bushes at the bottom of the yard is a faintly haunted-looking doghouse.

Connor wanders over to the still swing, touching it lightly to get it moving.

[Did Cole have a swing like this?]

He conjures the ghost of a child, minimally detailed except for the face, swinging lazily. Almost instantly, he banishes it, turning away.

He tries the padlock on the shed door, then peers through the single window. Despite the poor condition of its exterior, the inside is tidy, if dusty with disuse. Connor sweeps away the names of the various chemicals and gardening tools; nothing here seems relevant, and it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to hide an intact android.

There’s a small porch off the side of it, not quite a playhouse. Connor shifts his attention to that. Grubby cars, a discarded bucket spilling dirt, and various trinkets and figures that look as though they haven’t been played with in a year or two. Or…

Connor glances back at the house, then crouches down, pinching some of the dirt in the bucket and bringing it to his tongue.

[Corunna series soil, sandy loam base]

[Concordant with local soil map]

[Higher than average nitrogen and organic compound contents]

[Cultivated soil]

Connor glances back at the garden beds. He’s not sensitive enough to say for certain how long since this soil was disturbed, but if he had to guess, it was more recently than not.

[The kids like to help with gardening?] slides tentatively along the silvered cedar bordering the beds.

From the other side of the house, he picks up the sound of the door closing, Hank’s and Leslie’s voices now muffled.

Connor shifts his attention to the house, the backdoor.

[Hank has gained permission to be inside.]

[Rejoin Hank?]

He raises his eyebrows. [Eventually.]

His HUD seems to agree, no longer barring the door with glowing red. Connor steps lightly up the back steps and tries the knob. It turns, and with an unfortunate creak, swings inwards.

[11:32:48 before discovery]

Inside, there’s a small sunroom, more of a covered porch, the family clearly uses as a cloakroom. There’s a set of hooks at just below eye level with adults’ coats, and then about halfway down, two sets with the names “NOAH” and “DANNY” above them in brightly-painted wooden letters. Connor cycles back through public records regarding the McCullough family, confirming the birth of their second child two years before. He thumbs through six months of regular health checkup records, then puts them aside.

He glances at the mat by the door, shoe sizes scattering across the faint imprints. There are marks from a pair of women’s size eight heels and child’s size nine boots that he doesn’t see on the tray with the rest of the shoes.

[By the front door?]

When he pulls back up the glimpse inside he’s gotten around Leslie McCullough, he can’t recall seeing any, though they may have been out of sight. Frowning, Connor crouches, scraping dirt off the soles of each shoe in turn and sampling.

[Similar soil composition]

[ _Juniperus virginiana_ splinters, likely from playground surface]

He freezes with a man’s boot in one hand, the snare shatter of iron scattering on his tongue amongst the dirt and salt.

[ _Felis catus_ ]

He examines the boot and its twin more thoroughly, scraping a nail along the stitching hopefully, but catches no further traces of blood. In fact, the tops seem as though they’ve been cleaned recently.

[Removing evidence?] curves over the shoe’s toe.

[Why not the soles as well?]

[10:12:42 until discovery]

The inner door opens much more silently, and Connor slips in, releasing the knob with a barely-audible _snick_. He stands in a kitchen with pastel blue-painted cupboards and appliances only a little newer than Hank’s.

Hank, who he can see through the opening to the living room. He stares at Connor for a split second, making what Connor can only assume are significant eyebrows at him while Leslie’s looking at her phone, then focuses back on her before she looks up.

[Not approval exactly, but not outright censure.]

He scans the kitchen, crouching to under the table and appliances for traces of thirium, but there’s nothing that piques his interest. The YK-series are too small to practically assist with domestic tasks; that seems an unlikely motivation for detaining it.

To his left, there’s a dining room, opening into a short hallway alongside the stairs. He walks silently, taking in the scattering of family photos dotting the walls, the recently-vacuumed rug, until he reaches the closed door near the entrance. He stops, listening carefully and running as precise of a thermal scan as he can through the wall, but it seems unoccupied, so he tries the door, pushing it in.

Clothes spill out of an overstuffed hamper, lending a faint unwashed funk to the room. Whey-thin light filters in through drawn blinds, mingling with the lamplight from the hall to cast the room in fuzzy shadows. A cross hangs above the bed, perfectly centered. Two bedside tables, two lamps, two robes hanging on the back of the door. Connor stares at them, feeling a strange unease.

[Being in a relationship means sharing proximity during biological functions like sleep.]

[And if you don’t have those?]

He shakes his head; that’s not what he’s here for. He shuffles through the clothes in the closet, watching for signs of thirium but finding none. He turns, giving the room a last frustrated once-over, then slips out of the room as quietly as he’d entered.

Calculations spill down the stairs like a carpet, telling Connor which steps to avoid and which he can safely and silently step on. But he pauses before moving; he knows he shouldn’t draw attention to himself, but he can’t help glancing at Hank before he moves on.

Hank sits on a grey-green couch, leaning elbows on his knees and tapping a stubby pencil against a notebook as he nods in response to Leslie. The light that seemed so anemic in the bedroom catches lively in his pale hair, collides with the overhead lamplight to brush depth over his back and shoulders. Some part of Connor’s mind still ranges over Hank’s shape, recording every angle of his posture, every line of his face, every movement of lip or eyebrow, as if somehow these measurements would distill to a mathematical formula that made sense of why _him_ , why _this_ , why Connor’s still watching, waiting for him to say something so he can catch a glimpse of Hank’s teeth as if that little gap might’ve changed somehow in the past five minutes. Perhaps that’s part of the attraction, in some ineffable way: a mystery he could spend their lives unravelling, a mystery he’s more and more certain Hank’s wrestling with as well.

Not that it particularly seems that way when Hank notices him watching and gives him a deeply exhausted glare.

[08:37:22 until discovery]

Connor tears himself away and springs carefully up the steps, barely making a sound. The upstairs hallway features another assortment of family photos, a moon-shaped nightlight plugged into the wall, and a scattering of toys spilling out of two of the doors. The third leads into a spacious bathroom, the tub still littered with bath toys.

[Shared bathing is another feature of intimate relationships] sidles out encouragingly from behind the shower curtain.

Connor indulges in a blush. The tub at Hank’s house would be a tighter fit than this one, but maybe that would be part of the appeal. Squeezed between Hank’s thighs with his soft chest as his backrest, or curled around his thickness from behind, damp hair sticking to his face as he nosed against Hank’s skin. Face-to-face, either end of the bath with tantalising distance between them and his toes hooked behind Hank’s side, or lying full-length against each other, watching Hank’s face from beneath the water.

[What does Hank look like naked?]

He can extrapolate plenty from seeing him mostly undressed, but it’s not the same for that hungry part of him. Certainly not the same as knowing with fingers, with lips, with other parts he’s only barely begun to think of in the past few days. Finding out is feeling more and more imperative, though.

Perhaps he’s too impatient, but it feels like his attempts to communicate subtly aren’t getting through. Certainly, he’s been able to enjoy Hank’s physical reactions, but… His eyebrows twitch in a frown; there’s some leap, some next step that’s not happening and he’s not sure whether it’s not yet or not at all. Connor steps back into the hall, glancing down the stairs, though he can’t see Hank from this angle.

[Hank appreciates directness] leans suggestively against the entrance to the living room.

[07:56:42 until discovery]

But not right now. Time to focus.

More painted wooden block letters proclaim this to be Danny’s room. There’s an unmade bed bordered with a metal and plastic safety rail, and several toys arranged on the rumpled blanket as though enacting some bizarre incomprehensible ritual. Connor bends to check under the change table, then shoots back to his feet, frowning back at the bed.

One of the toys looks like a bedtime friend discarded at waking; the stuffed sheep still bears the faintest heat signature from being clasped against a small chest. Connor bats aside the stray question about whether adults still enjoy snuggling a close friend at night and analyzes the other figures. A stuffed dog and elephant, both with freakishly huge sparkly eyes, lean against each other as if in conference, accompanied by a shiny cyborg action figure that, given age recommendations, ought to belong to Noah. It’s laid perpendicularly across a third animal, another dog that drapes limply across a small plastic toy plate.

Gingerly, Connor picks up the action figure, touching his tongue to its midsection. All of the grubbiness to be expected of small people who don’t wash their hands frequently or well, and he’s about to drop it back where it had lain, when his HUD kicks out the simple line,

[Blood proteins, _Lagomorph leporidae_ ]

Connor’s eyes widen, his mouth hanging open slightly as he reviews the list of detected substances. He picks up the other toys in turn, collecting samples from likely points of contact.

[Houghton series soil, discordant with soil map of direct area]

[Discordant with Westcount Elementary School soil map]

[Concordant with soil map of Scottsfield park area]

He pulls up a regular map, eyes flicking back and forth as he reviews intangible information, but it’s the only park with a playground within reasonable walking distance. Which could mean he should disregard the information; obviously, families in the area would frequent it. It’s where the YK200 had disappeared, but that was more than a year ago.

[06:58:41 until discovery]

He places the toys perfectly back where he’d found them and turns his attention back to the room at large. But nothing else sticks out.

At the other end of the hall is a room marked NOAH.

He’s fully aware that he’s been intentionally saving this for last, despite the fact that it increases the likelihood he’ll be interrupted before he can conclude his search. Connor sets his hand on the partly-open door with an unfamiliar thrill.

[Would it be familiar to Hank?]

[Does Hank still feel it?]

Connor lets his mind drift back to that last glimpse in the living room like his hand finding his coin as he slips silently through the door.

The first thing that hits him is the smell.

He’s been catching stray molecules of it out in the hall, but not quite enough to seem significant. But his entrance stirs an eddy in the still air that brings a waft of decay to his nose. Not enough that a human would know what it was but for him, it’s an overpowering stench, pinging his sensors with significance. He resists the urge to cover his face at first.

[There’s no one to communicate to that it stinks.]

[Well, maybe I want to communicate to _me._ ] He tugs the collar of his jacket up, dampening the stench to a low hum.

On the dresser are more family photos and an assortment of small porcelain animal figurines, most of them dogs. Connor picks one up with interest; they appear to be produced by the same workshop, and, while he doesn’t see one here, perhaps the same place makes a St. Bernard. Then again, if this case ends the way he’s expecting it to, perhaps he and Hank wouldn’t enjoy a reminder of this child’s room.

One of the photos on the dresser is of Noah, perhaps a year younger, with his arm around the neck of a golden retriever, and beside them Danny, more easily placed in age based on his uncertain ability to sit up unaided.

Connor’s eyes slip to the window overlooking the backyard. Perhaps if he’s quick and careful enough, he can go out and have a look in the doghouse.

Silently, he slips the drawers open, but all he finds are clothes and a few trading card game cards, even when he pulls one all the way out. He moves on, surveying the scattered pile of lego on the floor; it all seems fairly normal, a mix of sets in amongst the more stodgy and mysterious child’s creations. There’s a few dress-up outfits on the floor, a onesie meant to be some unidentifiable lime green mammal, a firefighter’s uniform, and a pretend doctor’s kit. Connor squints at the last, then drops to one knee.

There appear to also be pieces from a child’s woodworking set mixed in with the stethoscope, reflex hammer, and friendly oversized syringe. Connor glances over the array of toys, running a reconstruction back from their abandonment at a call to supper. Noah, and Danny too, he realises quickly, jabbing at each other with the various toys and discarding them to scuffle. It all seems fairly normal, but there’s just a slight hitch, something missing towards the end.

Another item, something that made Danny flinch, cry out, perhaps precipitating the call downstairs.

Connor follows the predicted trajectory. Rolled under a corner of the bed he finds a real screwdriver.

Eyes wide, Connor draws it out, releasing a quiet triumphant huff.

[Thirium, ~8 days old]

He brings it to his lips.

[YK200 model (production cancelled)]

[Houghton series soil]

[Blood proteins, _Felis catus_ ]

He reexamines the kit; there’s more dirt caught in the hinges at the bottom. No further thirium, but he’s satisfied just the same.

Children are harder to predict. His coding was written by adults, and there are basic limitations. But he thinks he’s beginning to get the picture.

[03:49:23]

[Continue investigating?]

[Escape undetected?]

He decides to chance it and pushes open the closet. Clothes and old toys scatter the floor and the wide ledge created where some duct passes underneath, with a couple blankets wound into a loose nest in one corner. He lights up when he sees that last, but it only reveals traces of Noah and Danny to his cursory search. He stands; a few clothes hang in front of him, along with a renewed stench. Connor toes at the litter on the floor, then glances around the walls.

As some preternatural sense had told him, there’s a sixty by forty-five centimetre square inset in the ceiling.

Connor steps onto the ledge and reaches up, pushing gently.

[03:08:29]

The plywood square lifts easily; he starts to slide it to his right, away from the back wall of the house, but it bumps into something. Connor frowns, shifting its trajectory and setting it down. He tests the edges of the hole, then grips them and, with a little hop, pulls himself up to sit on the edge.

The attic is clearly meant more for maintenance than storage; he wouldn’t be able to stand even under the peak of the roof. It also means it’s disappointingly clear of any places to hide a stray android. Connor turns his attention to the item that had blocked the cover: a shoebox. He takes it in his lap and opens the lid.

Putrefaction assaults his nose, violin shrieks and a sickening drone vibrating in his senses and his HUD blanching yellow with surprise that he probably shouldn’t feel.

[ _Felis catus_ , left radius and ulna]

[Adult]

[Deceased, 4 months]

[ _Lagomorph leporidae_ , left ulna, carpals, metacarpals, phalanges]

[Juvenile, 2 weeks]

[Deceased, 6 months]

[ _Felis catus_ , left radius, carpals, metacarpals, phalanges]

[Juvenile, 5 months]

[Deceased, 15 months]

[ _Canis lupus familiaris_ , left metacarpals, carpals, phalanges]

[Adult]

[Deceased, 19 months]

And underneath them all, bare and skeletal in its own sanitary plastic way, a small left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever come to at 2am on a worknight halfway through a paper from the 70s on detroit area soil composition and realise youve lost control of your life


End file.
